


There is No Cure for Stupidity

by Sylindara



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Teenage confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3619932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylindara/pseuds/Sylindara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their last Spring High had ended. Graduation was just around the corner. At some point you had to let the past go. </p><p>Kindaichi and Kageyama meet; older, wiser, and maybe ready for something more than rivals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is No Cure for Stupidity

**Author's Note:**

> When I entered middle school, there was an amazing player. I thought middle school was an amazing place. But that wasn't it; _he_ was the amazing one.  
>  \- Kageyama, Ch53 (Vol6)

When he was younger one of the girls Kindaichi had gone out with broke up with him because he was ‘such a masochist, doesn’t it depress you?’ It wasn’t his first girlfriend, for which he should probably be thankful, but it was the one he had gone out with longest, and he never did had the heart to go out with anyone else after that.

He had told Kunimi about it afterwards, because that was the kind of person Kindaichi was, and Kunimi had laughed and laughed – and then treated him to grilled corn, because that was the kind of person Kunimi was.

“Of course you’re masochist,” Kunimi had said, tears of laughter still in his eyes, but also an unusual air of solemnity to his words that Kindaichi remembered even now. “You’re a volleyball player, aren’t you? No one who joins a sports club and sticks with it _isn’t_ a masochist.”

At the time it had felt like Kunimi was making fun of him. Kindaichi had been indignant, ‘what does that make you then?’ Now, he was mature enough to admit that Kunimi was probably right.

Kindaichi looked down at his phone and sighed. What other reason could he give for why he had decided to tell Kageyama – the first person he had told, in fact – which university he had been accepted into? As to why Kageyama had replied…well, he was a volleyball player too, wasn’t he? Kageyama had his own masochistic tendencies.

_I’ve been accepted there too._

It was such an innocuous reply. But one Kindaichi had been obsessing over for the past week. What did it mean? What was Kageyama trying to say? What response was he expecting?

He almost called Kunimi – Kindaichi was so used to complaining about Kageyama with him, it was habit by now to think of him first in this situation – but some instinct told him not to. This didn’t involve Kunimi.

It had been more than three years since that day. More than two years since they reunited on the court, on opposite sides of the net, and Kindaichi declaring them rivals because his pride could allow nothing else. More than a year since Seijou paid Karasuno back for their defeat in that first Spring High. This year, both Seijou and Karasuno lost in the Spring High preliminaries; Seijou to Datekou and Karasuno to Shiratorizawa.

Maybe that was why Kindaichi had sent that message. Maybe that was why Kageyama had replied. There were probably worse ways for a rivalry to fizzle out, but it still left Kindaichi with a lump of frustration he couldn’t dissolve.

And now they were going to the same university. They would be on the same team again. More than three years since that day and finally they would be reunited on the court on the same side of the net. They were no longer the people they used to be; Kindaichi didn’t know if that made him feel better or not.

“Ugh.” Diving into his bed, Kindaichi screwed his eyes shut and shoved his head under his pillow. Then he sat back up because all this tedious fretting was probably the most childish thing he’d done in ages. Kageyama had grown up. So had he. He had to believe that.

_Can we meet up?_

* * *

Kindaichi remembered their first meeting at Kitagawa Daiichi. It was the first day of club for the first years. Most of them had never even touched a volleyball before, and then-

_“I’m Kageyama Tobio from Akiyama Primary. I’ve been playing volleyball since my second year. Pleased to meet you.”_

Kageyama wasn’t like the rest of them. But Kindaichi hadn’t realised the extent of it then. In the first year, Kageyama’s obsession with Oikawa and the way he had eyes for no one else – on the surface it looked no different from half the club’s infatuation with Iwaizumi.

Mostly Kindaichi remembered being envious of his boldness; Kageyama’s willingness to approach Oikawa even though he never received anything but scorn in return. Kindaichi remembered being awestruck that Kageyama had the ability to replace Oikawa on the court; even once was an amazing opportunity for a first year. Back then, Kindaichi was genuinely impressed.

It wasn’t until the third years had graduated that he started noticing. Even though Oikawa was no longer there, Kageyama didn’t look at them. Now, Kindaichi knew that Kageyama was looking at something much higher, much further away. But at the time, all Kindaichi knew was that Kageyama didn’t have eyes for the rest of the club. It wasn’t that they weren’t good enough. It was that Kageyama had never even thought about them being good enough.

From the second year on, the number of players who couldn’t keep up with Kageyama grew. There were those who quit because they weren’t good enough. But all it did was Kageyama drive further, to greater heights that they couldn’t reach. He never seemed to realise that all it did was leave the rest of them further behind.

Kageyama thought the strength of the team lied in the strength of the setter. Brought up in the same team under Oikawa, Kindaichi couldn’t disagree. He still didn’t. But volleyball wasn’t that simple. Volleyball could never be that simple.

Kindaichi didn’t know who had come up with the nickname ‘King of the Court’ – he didn’t want to know, didn’t want any responsibility to it – but it didn’t matter. Because to Kindaichi what hurt wasn’t that Kageyama had become an unreachable King but that he couldn’t stand beside him.

What Kindaichi wanted was to hit Kageyama’s toss. Kageyama was a genius and Kindaichi wanted nothing more than to be equal to that genius.

Now, Kindaichi was old enough to realise that that line of thinking simply drove himself into a corner. The way Kageyama drove them all into a corner. The way they drove Kageyama into a corner.

But at the time, Kindaichi had watched the arc of a perfect toss and all he could dredge up was the despair of knowing that he would never reach it. The balls Kageyama tossed weren’t for him – if they ever were. He wasn’t the only one, because the ball came tumbling down with not a single hand reaching out for it.

Afterwards, there had been recriminations from everyone; the coach, the bench, the OB. Kindaichi remembered the disappointment aimed at them all, Kageyama included. But what Kindaichi remembered most of all was the disappointment in himself. That, in the end, Kageyama never tossed for him; he was never good enough.

Even back then he was a masochist.

* * *

They ended up meeting up at a family restaurant because Kindaichi couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. At least Kageyama, when he arrived, looked just as awkward and out of place. He hadn’t changed at all since Spring High. He had barely changed at all since Kitagawa; a little taller, a little steadier, the baby fat trimmed from his cheeks.

Kageyama still ate the same thing too. Curry with an egg on top. It was like being back in middle school except it wasn’t. Kindaichi ordered a bowl of beef with rice and tried not to feel even more self-conscious.

Going to the drink bar managed to put it off a little longer; there was something nostalgic about mixing all the drinks in one cup, even though the only one who ever did that was Kunimi. But soon enough it was just the two of them sitting opposite each other like hunks of wood.

“So it looks like we’re going to be on the same team,” said Kindaichi, because it didn’t look like Kageyama was going to stop glaring down at the table top.

Kageyama gave a light start. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Probably.”

“You think they know about Kitagawa?”

“Dunno.” Kageyama shrugged. “Who even still cares besides us?”

Kindaichi had no answer for that. “You ever think- you ever think about going back in time? Making it never happen?”

“Why?” Kindaichi was well used to Kageyama’s uncomprehending face. Another part of Kageyama that never changed. “It’s good that it did. I don’t think I could have changed without it.”

It was so selfish, so undeniably Kageyama, that Kindaichi couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course you’d think that.”

“Why?” Kageyama demanded. “Do you want it to never have happened?”

“I did, I think,” said Kindaichi slowly. “After seeing you at Karasuno, I thought that maybe it had been avoidable after all. That there was a way to make you listen if I just tried hard enough.”

“No there wasn’t.” Kageyama’s eyes were hard, but clear. “I was never going to listen to you. We’re both products of Kitagawa.”

‘Products of Oikawa’, Kageyama didn’t say, but Kindaichi thought it all the same. He was old enough now to acknowledge that they had chased after Oikawa’s setter shadow just as Kageyama did. Kageyama wasn’t the kind of setter Oikawa was, but he thought that was what he should be and so they did too. That Kageyama never managed to even come close to Oikawa was the hint none of them cared to notice.

“But, maybe, if I could have listened, things would have worked out better.” Kageyama looked down again. “I do regret that. But I don’t think there was anything you could have done.”

It was probably the nicest thing Kageyama had ever said to him. It also came close to being the apology Kindaichi did not want to accept. It was no longer a matter of not wanting to admit that all of them were fucked up by that last year of Kitagawa, not by this point, but that didn’t mean Kindaichi didn’t – still – have his pride. “Stop that,” he said, and deliberately stretched out his legs in the narrow booth. They bumped painfully against Kageyama’s; there wasn’t nearly enough room under here without their legs twisting together uncomfortably.

“You stop that.” Kageyama scowled back, not letting it go. “I didn’t learn until Karasuno. Maybe I couldn’t learn until Karasuno. So there’s no point thinking about it.” Under the table, their legs twined together almost at ease with each other.

* * *

_“I’m sure you must be very bitter about that pipsqueak stealing your place as Kageyama’s partner.”_

Oikawa had said something like that to Kindaichi once. It might have been back in their first official game against Karasuno, he couldn’t remember. It was an obvious attempt to fire him up, but also an obvious attempt to figure out his state of mind.

Even now, Kindaichi would still deny that statement. The things he had once believed in had changed with time and distance; the truths Kindaichi couldn’t face before, he could now. But the one thing that remained, untouched no matter how much Kindaichi matured, was this. Kindaichi wasn’t Kageyama’s partner. He never was. They were never close enough, never trusted each other enough for that. By that third year, Kindaichi didn’t want to trust Kageyama anyway. That was the shameful part: he had given up. He had gone to the Coach, with Kunimi, to take Kageyama off the team because he could no longer believe that they could play together. Because it was easier to blame everything on Kageyama.

He would be lying if he said that he wasn’t bitter at all. But it wasn’t about Hinata who, at the time, was so green it hurt. He couldn’t be envious of someone like that, because that required Kindaichi to think Hinata was actually good at volleyball. He was now; now, Hinata could be considered one of the top players of the country, even if he never did reach Ushijima’s levels – no one did. But Hinata, then and now, wasn’t the source of Kindaichi’s bitterness. It was, and it always would be, Kageyama. Kageyama coordinating with everyone, Kageyama trusting them to be his team, Kageyama tossing the ball for them.

That’s what it always came down to, because that was what they shared. Or didn’t share. And somehow wanting Kageyama’s tosses had turned into wanting Kageyama himself. In all the ways possible. Ways that left Kindaichi waking up in the morning with messy boxers and an incomprehensible need.

He wasn’t bitter, but maybe he was a little envious of Kageyama and Hinata’s closeness. Even though he was pretty sure they weren’t partners _like that_. It was hard to imagine Kageyama being interested in touching anything that wasn’t a volleyball anyway. Even though he knew that Kageyama was a living, breathing human being who probably also had dreams that resulted in messy boxers and unexplainable cravings, it was hard to imagine him actually caring.

But that was part of the thrill. Wanting to see Kageyama outside of the framework of volleyball. Wanting to make Kageyama look at him outside of the framework of volleyball. He didn’t even know if that would even be possible. What did they have left, between the two of them, without volleyball? Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. He was too scared to find out. Too scared that it would change the status quo and he would lose what they did have – their rivalry, their past, their future.

He simply wanted, in that frantic, childish way teenagers wanted, and even now Kindaichi wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted. Go on dates? Have sex? Play volleyball?

Maybe that was another way in which Kindaichi was a masochist.

* * *

The meal went well. Well enough that Kindaichi didn’t quit while he was ahead and ended the whole thing right there. On the side of an uninhabited riverbank, watching Kageyama stand a little off to the side with a volleyball in his hands, Kindaichi was beginning to regret that decision.

Kageyama held the ball to his forehead, breathing deeply. It was a familiar sight, one he had seen innumerous times on both sides of the net for almost six years. It also made him wonder what Kageyama was up to because if he served here there was nowhere for the ball to go.

But Kageyama didn’t serve; the ball arcing to Kindaichi in a gentle curve. Sheer habit had Kindaichi’s arms out ready to receive. The ball flew back to Kageyama with pinpoint accuracy. They went through the warm-up exercises a while longer, and then all that was left was spiking.

They drew a line in the ground for the net. And then, for the first time in years, Kindaichi hit Kageyama’s toss. It was way less poignant than he had been expecting.

Kindaichi looked over to see the same dissatisfied look on Kageyama’s face. “You don’t need to go easy on me, you know.” Kindaichi said.

“I know,” Kageyama asserted. “You can jump higher than that.”

“Yeah.”

Kageyama tossed again. It almost felt like he was actually tossing for Kindaichi this time and Kindaichi lost himself in the familiar motions of the ball.

They stopped once the sun started setting, lying next to each other on the grass and feeling like children again. Kindaichi could feel the cold again now that he wasn’t moving; he put his coat back on and threw Kageyama’s at him.

“Thanks,” Kageyama said, a slight flush on his cheeks.

Kindaichi looked away. Then felt stupid for doing it. Under the faint rush of water and the whistling of the winter wind, he could just barely hear Kageyama breathing beside him. The back of Kindaichi’s left hand was not quite touching Kageyama’s right, close enough that he could feel the warmth of Kageyama’s skin slowly leeching away.

Playing volleyball together, receiving Kageyama’s tosses, it made him want again. Not that he ever really stopped wanting. Kindaichi breathed out slowly. Gently, deliberately, he reached out his hand and curled their fingers together. Kageyama looked at him, startled, then tightened his grasp.

“It’s cold, your hand’ll get stiff,” said Kindaichi. It was a silly thing to say.

Kageyama didn’t loosen his hold on Kindaichi’s hand. “Okay.”

Not only was this the closest he had ever been to Kageyama in his life, Kindaichi had probably never been this close emotionally with any of his ex-girlfriends. It was a sobering thought, but also kind of exciting to think that maybe he was close – closer – to Kageyama.

“Back at the restaurant, you said ‘you did’,” Kageyama said suddenly, turning to face Kindaichi. “That means you don’t anymore?”

Kindaichi sighed softly and turned to face him too. So much for that. “There’s a point where it feels like it doesn’t matter anymore. It happened. It’s over. Maybe you’re right; maybe no one cares anymore except us. You’ve grown up, I’ve grown up, we’re all better people for it now.”

“It’s that simple,” Kageyama said quietly, as if he didn’t completely agree.

Kindaichi faced forward, looking up at the darkening sky. “Maybe we just don’t want it to be simple. Because then there’re no excuses we can make.”

“Maybe.” Kageyama sighed. “I don’t think there’re any excuses I can make anyway.”

“There’s no better excuse than saying you were young,” Kindaichi said seriously. “People don’t have many expectations of 15 year olds.”

“Do you actually want me to say I was 15 and didn’t know better?” Kageyama snorted.

“Not really,” said Kindaichi, turning back to face Kageyama. “But you _were_ 15\. You _didn’t_ know better. And neither did we.”

The look Kageyama sent him was unreadable. “I didn’t expect you to say that. Other setters managed to work with their teams.”

“And other teams managed to work with their setters,” Kindaichi retorted. “It doesn’t matter whether you’re the one at fault or if we were, or if it could have happened with anyone else. It’s all a game of what-ifs. Like you said, there’s no point thinking about it.”

“It wouldn’t have happened with Oikawa-san,” Kageyama said, he almost sounded ashamed.

“Hey, you never know,” Kindaichi said, feeling strangely contrary. “Maybe there is a universe out there where Oikawa-san caused the breakup of every single player with their girlfriends.”

Kageyama snickered, puffs of white leaving his mouth. “You’d need every single player to have a girlfriend in the first place.”

“I’m sure Oikawa-san can manage it,” said Kindaichi, feeling just as giggly. “Oikawa-san is amazing like that.”

Kageyama’s face turned sober, and suddenly the mood was gone. “Oikawa-san _is_ amazing. I still don’t understand why he’s such a great setter and how he does what he does,” he confessed quietly.

“Who can understand Oikawa-san?” Kindaichi sighed exasperatedly. “Who really wants to understand Oikawa-san? You’re a perfectly fine setter without being him.”

“You really think so?” Kageyama’s tone was belligerent, but Kindaichi thought he could hear the vulnerability underneath. This was something Karasuno couldn’t give him, but Kindaichi could.

“I hit your tosses just now, didn’t I?” Kindaichi said forcefully. “They’re nothing like Oikawa-san’s. What, are you trying to rub Karasuno’s win in that first Spring High in my face? You beat him already. Officially even.”

Kageyama made a face. “I just thought maybe you liked Oikawa-san’s toss better.”

“I like tosses that feel good,” Kindaichi replied. “Your tosses felt good today.”

“That’s because I was tossing them for you. I never did that at Kitagawa because I never learned, but now I can.” Kageyama looked down shyly. At some point, they had drifted so close that Kindaichi could count the eyelashes covering Kageyama’s half-closed eyes.

“It felt really good,” Kindaichi said earnestly. He wasn’t actually sure what they were talking about anymore, most of his attention on Kageyama’s lips.

Kageyama looked up, their eyes meeting. Kindaichi couldn’t tell who moved first, but suddenly their lips were touching. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice screamed ‘WE’RE KISSING’ at Kindaichi.

It was probably the most innocent kiss of Kindaichi's life. But when they pulled apart, Kageyama was red as a tomato and, from the heat in his cheeks, Kindaichi was probably the same.

“I didn’t think I would ever get to do this with you.” Kageyama’s voice was so quiet, he almost didn’t hear it.

“Neither did I.”

“I guess we really did grow up.” Kageyama huffed quietly, their faces so close, Kindaichi could feel the puff of air against his own lips.

“Yeah, we did.” Kindaichi leaned forward for another kiss.


End file.
